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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638537">To Break the Bridle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights'>deervsheadlights</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel 1872, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Western, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Mild Sexual Content, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Tension, Sharing Body Heat, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:14:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone told Tony a year ago that he would be herding cattle up on some god-forsaken mountain in deep winter out of his own free will, he would've laughed in their face.</p><p>If they were to show him the blond and blue-eyed reason for his sudden lapse of judgement, though, he might've just understood.<br/> </p><p>  <em>[ tagged as taking place in the 1872 'verse but can be read as a western au ]</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>guess who's using their time in quarantine productively (read: avoiding school projects) and working on the dozens of wips in their arsenal? </p><p>as always, all mistakes are mine - please enjoy the read!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A stranger in the saloon catches Tony's eye. Everything kind of snowballs from there.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>When you're used to the mild weather and many commodities of the east coast, Wyoming is like a hook to the chin from a guy twice your size.</p><p>Tony would know. Tony has spent a considerable amount of time in Red Rock's only saloon, a sad little place crammed in between the even grimmer looking general store and a building proclaiming itself a bank despite not having seen a single dollar note in half a decade. </p><p>Tony has spent a considerable amount of his time in said saloon drinking, as one does. In truth, it's the only thing to do in this god-forsaken place. The locals haven't been privy to a brothel or any other form of entertainment in ages, and so visitors and townsfolk alike flock to the establishment like vultures to a fresh carcass.</p><p>The saloon itself is just that, too. Dead and rotten, like the rest of the town. The floorboards are being ravished by wood rot and creak in anguish every time their old bones are tested for their durability. One of the windows has been boarded up but never fixed after a couple of morons took their disagreement outside by launching themselves through the window and onto the street in a tangle of limbs. There's a draft in the open space of the room now, and even the fireplace in the corner can't keep the cold out. </p><p>Tony likes to sit as far away from the broken window as possible. He hasn't grown accustomed to the temperatures and doubts he ever will. Really, he's positive nobody does; people just pretend to cope until eventually the cold seeps under their skin and into their bones and becomes bearable because it's part of them. Tony thinks there's a metaphor somewhere in there, but he's too far gone to think about it and come morning he won't remember, so why bother?</p><p>Next to him, there's noises on the other side of the wall. A scratch and a bump, followed by silence until the sounds come back, repeating like a broken record. They don't startle him like they used to. His guess is that rat colony has taken up residence in these walls a long time ago; Tony's been told it's neither his problem nor his business when he mentioned the matter to the owner, so he let it go. It's true, anyway.</p><p>Aforementioned owner, a balding man with a stocky build, a gut to match and no people skills whatsoever, has been tending the bar day and night ever since the fateful day Tony semi-purposely got himself stranded in Red Rock. Considering this place probably is the man's life blood, Tony can see how he would get a little defensive about its obvious rodent infestation.</p><p>He calls the man over for a refill and pushes his empty glass to the other side of the counter. Tony thinks he's overheard someone calling him Bill once, but the memory is blurry in his head and he doesn't have any desire to speak to the man any more than his desire for sub-par whiskey necessitates, so it doesn't matter.</p><p>He only grunts in acknowledgement when Tony slaps a ten-dollar-bill down in front of him to settle his debts, and then makes off with the money clutched in his fist. The guy's an asshole and doesn't particularly like him, yes, but since Tony's a regular and always pays up, the service is good enough. </p><p>Besides, Tony can think of greater sins than selling drink to lost men.</p><p>As it so happens, every man who spends his time in the company of drunken travellers, vagabonds and supposed outlaws eventually gets caught up in a bar fight, no matter whether he'd like a part of it or not. And as luck would have it, Tony's confronted with the worst of them, because although he isn't small by any means (maybe on the lower end of average in height), he is no match for the seven feet tall giant named Tommy who comes barging at him for no apparent reason but the fun of it.</p><p>Tony isn't in the mood to get beaten to a pulp when everything he's been looking forward to tonight was getting shitfaced and later stumble across the street to the small inn that accommodates his room. A man has to uphold his reputation as the town drunk, after all, and slacking off means people talk. Luckily, the guy loses interest in him immediately after Tony has crashed into a table and rolled onto the floor, so he uses everyone's momentary disinterest in his existence to escape the saloon.</p><p>The brisk night air hits him with unexpected force. Tony can't decide whether to hold his aching jaw that surely must have a pretty bruise blooming right about now or wrap his arms around his body to partly shield himself from the cold. He does neither. The pain is a pleasant thump in his bones that keeps him tethered to reality and the low temperatures remind him of how very much not drunk he really is. It's easy to build up a tolerance when the alcohol is cut with water so very evidently it should be considered fraud.</p><p>Tony finds himself not wanting to move from his spot on the side of the road outside the saloon, freezing and hurting yet he may be. The town is cloaked in shadows all but for the building behind him, and the stars shine differently out here. </p><p>He can't explain it. Everything is more primitive here; if you happen to come from back east, it's like going a few decades back in time. For some reason, all is more filthy, too, except for the night sky. The crescent moon seems to glow brighter, and the dark of night is clearer than Tony can remember it ever being in New York.</p><p>In the corner of his eye, he spots a rider dismounting his horse outside the inn on the other side of the road. There's nothing special about the sight; travellers often arrive in the dead of night, but this man doesn't seem equipped for a longer journey. His only possessions appear to be the clothes he wears and whatever else might be stored on his mount. Tony watches him feed the strawberry roan a handful of oats and throw the saddlebags over his shoulder before he heads inside. </p><p>A lot of people wander in and out of this place. Tony soon found that he's the only occupant who has ever willingly stayed there for longer; everyone else seems to be happy to be on their way after a night's rest. Technically, he wouldn't have had to stay there, either. Tony could've built a whole mansion on a plot of land at the outskirts of town, but chose not to. He favors springs of old mattresses poking into his back and unseasoned stew with stringy meat over risking his identity being found out. </p><p>It is better this way, less of a hassle. Easier to run from his demons, too.</p><p>This guy here looks just the part of the weary traveller who'd rather spend a night in the almost ghost town that is Red Rock instead of sleeping out in the open. As uninviting as it may be, it's better than to risk being mugged or murdered in your sleep somewhere in these parts. The town hasn't got any law enforcement save for a few residents with rifles and half-decent aim, but it's enough to keep the worst scum lurking out there from shooting up the place.</p><p>Tony sits down on the porch of the saloon, looking up at the stars in silence until the men inside finally have had enough and bury the hatchet. </p><p>He goes back to his seat in the corner, with the rats and the whiskey to drown out his thoughts.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony, most days, tries to sleep well into the afternoon.</p><p>It means the days are shorter, and the wait until the saloon opens and he can repeat last night's proceedings is less tedious. </p><p>Tony wanders into the tavern around five, which he thinks is an appropriate time of day to give into his less than admirable habits. He doesn't know why he's trying to keep up the pretense of the respectable citizen; everyone is aware of that not being the case, and he's never cared for small town gossip.</p><p>In the later hours, when Tony has officially lost count of the many times he's asked for a refill, a man pushing his way into the space of the saloon catches his eye. Despite what people seem to believe, he does keep an eye on the comings and goings; at least until a point from which on he's too out of it to care.</p><p>Tony squints, observing the man over the rim of his glass as he makes his way to the bar. He leans against the counter a few feet away, ordering a beer, completely oblivious to Tony's stare. It's undoubtedly the traveller he's noticed last night; the same hat, the same bright hair, the same tall build. </p><p>Now however, Tony is able to make out his features in the dim light of the saloon, and the man is almost shockingly handsome. It's a strange sight. The west seems to turn even the prettiest people ugly, with its dirt and grime and sickness. And it's not like this one has been spared the worst of it: he's sunburnt and gruff too, with a split lip, a shadow of stubble on his jaw and an old scar on his temple. Somehow, though, that doesn't diminish the effect the deep blue of his eyes or the pink of his lips seems to have on Tony, and he has trouble looking away when the stranger lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks.</p><p>He must've looked for a tad too long, because after he's set his drink back down, the man turns to him casually and lifts an eyebrow in question, eyeing him from under the brim of his hat. "I got somethin' in my face?" he asks, his voice a rough drawl with an accent Tony can't quite place. </p><p><em> Just the most devastatingly pretty eyes I've ever seen, </em>Tony answers him in thought. Of course, the thing he says is, "No, no. Just looking. As you might be able to tell, there's not much else to do in this place," because this guy already sounds like someone who'd enjoy breaking that bottle over Tony's head without needing much reason to.</p><p>Tony, too, has learned long ago not to bare thoughts the likes of these to the world and especially not the men they are aimed at. He thinks it must've been at the age of twelve when his father overheard him speaking too fondly of a boy in his class; Howard Stark beat that particular notion out of him with his belt and words that stung more than any beating ever could.</p><p>At least, his old man thought he did, because Tony still grew up to be the <em>'pathetic little</em> <em>cocksucker'</em> he threatened to disown that day. Howard died an early death and left his legacy for Tony to do with as he pleased, and here he is, drowning his sorrows after everything crashed and burned in his wake. This, here? It's a small price to pay for revenge. Revenge on a dead man, but revenge nevertheless. Or that's what Tony tells himself, anyway.</p><p>The man's answer, to Tony's surprise, is much less hostile than he expects. He huffs a low breath, half sounding of interest and half of amusement. "Just lookin', huh? And what's it you're lookin' for?" </p><p>He's braced against the counter with one arm, his gaze inquisitive as he regards Tony. His eyes are narrowed just so, and Tony's heart rate spikes with the irrational fear that the stranger and his piercing blue eyes know perfectly well what he's been thinking of.</p><p>"Eh, you know," he answers, clearing his throat to hide the strain in his voice, "nothing too specific. Watching the people that find their way into this god-forsaken place is interesting enough. Makes you wonder what made them come here, where they came from, where they're going. Good way to pass time."</p><p>Tony thinks that might've been one of the better lies he's come up with. God knows he doesn't give two shits about who enters and leaves this establishment, but he'd rather tell the man that than the truth, which is that he's the first person Tony's found worth looking at ever since arriving in Red Rock.</p><p>"Well, since you seem so interested in other people's business, I'll be goin' up to Crimson Peak," the man says, and the barely there smile indicates that his jab was a friendly one. Tony allows himself to relax a little and gestures for him to continue as he takes a sip of his own drink.</p><p>"Man by the name of Cannon got his cattle stuck up there 'cause an avalanche went down and blocked off the pass. And <em> now </em> he needs someone to make sure they don't all keel over dead throughout the winter," he explains, pausing for a moment while his gaze shifts off to the side in thought. "Say, ah, you wouldn't know anyone willing to work a job like that? It's no lone man's business up in these mountains, and frankly, I have no desire to be that man. Pay ain't half bad, though."</p><p>Tony, staring into his own distorted reflection that frowns at him from the remains of the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass, experiences a moment of clarity.</p><p>Maybe it's madness disguised as a sudden bout of false self-awareness, but it's <em> something, </em> and that's more than he's felt in all those past weeks that are already blurring together in his mind. He's <em> lucid.  </em></p><p>"Like I said," Tony smiles with too many teeth and lifts his cup in a mock toast before downing the booze left, "I don't have much else to do."</p><p>The man returns the smile, a genuinely amused one that falters with time and turns into a lopsided smirk when he processes Tony's words and takes the earnestness in them for what it is. </p><p>Then, in a placating tone of voice that seems to be his attempt at softening the blow, he says, "With all due respect, mister, but I think you might not be quite cut out for that sorta work. The weather can get pretty nasty, and with the terrain up there, it ain't exactly what you'd call hazard-free."</p><p>Tony almost laughs in sheer incredulity, because, <em> ouch. </em>Talk about the hard truth. He'd have thought the city smell had finally worn off after all this time in Red Rock, but it seems luck isn't on his side. Hell, he knows he's mighty unprepared for something like this, not only because he has practically zero experience with both cattle and land, but also because his physique hasn't exactly thanked him for his activities in the recent past.</p><p>And yet<em> , </em> he <em> wants</em>. </p><p>Something reckless and defiant has set fire to his nerve-endings and for some otherworldly reason, it wants <em> this</em>. It wants to ride up into the mountains to herd damn cows in icy blizzards and hopefully not freeze his fingers off in the process. Unfortunately, Tony is under no delusions as to what caused him to acquire this unusual taste for adventure.</p><p>Tony swallows his wounded pride and counters, "With all due respect, but you talk like you got a dozen other applicants to choose from. And from what I've been hearing, that's not really the case, is it?"</p><p>There's a moment of stunned silence. After, the man chuckles in disbelief and takes a long sip of his beer (to buy himself time while he thinks of an appropriate response that'll shut him up, Tony assumes) but when the blond eventually speaks up again, it's not to discuss further.</p><p>"Steve Rogers," he says, extending his hand to shake Tony's, and it takes Tony longer to react than he's comfortable with admitting.</p><p>Rogers' hand is big and calloused and wraps around his own warm like a full-body embrace, and it takes Tony longer to let go than it should.</p><p>Tony Stark has always been a fool, but he has a feeling this man might just be able to bring out the very worst of it in him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Let it be known that Tony will be the first to admit that his impulsive behavior doesn't always prove itself an asset. In fact, most of the time, it leaves him in less desirable situations than he initially found himself in, and that feat alone should be considered a small miracle.</p><p>And he thought he'd built up a tolerance to trouble in the noplaceville that is Red Rock. Apparently, no such luck. </p><p>The unfairly muscled reason for his lapse of judgement is sitting on the tall strawberry roan trotting along the snow-covered trail in front of him like he was born there, shooting knowing glances back at Tony every once in a while as if he's intensely aware of Tony's deep-seated regrets.</p><p>They've been riding for half a day. Even with breaks in between, it's the longest Tony has ever spent on horseback, and his body keeps him very aware of that fact with every movement of the animal underneath him. His legs are cramping and his ass is already numb, making the whole affair a rather painful endeavor.</p><p>Tony wouldn't have guessed it would take him less than a day to miss Red Rock and its saloon with the rats and the watered down booze, but here he is. Miserable. Rogers is probably just waiting for him to crumble and turn his horse around, which is exactly why Tony can't. He's always had the incessant need to prove people wrong, especially those assumptions related to his person and his perseverance. </p><p>Tony may not have the slightest idea what awaits him, but neither does Rogers, the smug bastard.</p><p>They turn left at the next crossroads and the trail there is wider, enough to fit two riders comfortably next to each other. Tony pushes his mount into a faster trot to be on one level with the other man, trying not to let his discomfort show as Rogers looks over.</p><p>"How's she doin'? You both gettin' along?" he asks, almost deliberately avoiding any question regarding Tony's well-being. Tony isn't sure whether to feel grateful or humiliated.</p><p>This morning, they'd gotten a horse for Tony at Red Rock's smith, a greying man who keeps the animals around for company rather than their use. His attachment to each and every one of them and the lack of business competition meant that the price would burn a hole in any other man's wallet, but with Tony being who he is, money isn't an issue. Rogers seemed mildly bemused when Tony paid up without complaint, but didn't ask questions. Tony decided he liked that. </p><p>"Yeah, we're good. She's treating me well. Pretty sure she's going easy on me because she can tell I'm out of practice," Tony answers, chuckle dry in his throat. </p><p>He pats the mare's neck as they ride; she's got a dark chestnut coloring and goes by the name of Butterfingers. Tony doesn't see how that's a fitting name for any horse, but then again, he's witnessed Rogers calling his strawberry roan <em> Captain, </em>so he decides to be thankful for small mercies at the end of the day.</p><p>"Sure you're up for this?" </p><p>Tony knew the question would come eventually. And here's the thing: he doesn't know. Probably not. This could be a suicide mission for all he knows, but here's another thing: Tony doesn't think he cares. He's got his whole life to rot and wither like the rest of Red Rock when he comes back.</p><p>And if he doesn't, well. He can imagine worse ways to go than the one where Steve Rogers is the last thing he sees. Really, they say freezing to death is peaceful.</p><p>Not that he's planning to kick the bucket up there. </p><p>"I think I'll manage," he says. It's only half a lie. "I'm not about to exaggerate my skillset, but I learn quickly. Just need someone to show me the ropes."</p><p>When Tony winks and shoots Rogers a smirk, he finds the man already looking at him. He avoids his gaze the moment their eyes meet, and Tony sees a muscle in his jaw tic angrily when he looks away.</p><p>"I'll try," he answers, eyes glued to the road ahead of them. </p><p>Something in his voice has shifted, his attention turned inward, contemplating. Tony can't place it, the sudden change in the atmosphere, but it has him shoving all his <em> untoward </em> thoughts about Rogers out of his mind. </p><p>They don't talk the rest of the way.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"You got 'em?" </p><p>Rogers' voice echoes through the valley, bouncing off the mountain ridges closing in around them and eventually fading somewhere deep down in the snow-clad plains below. </p><p>"Yeah, yeah. Keep going," Tony shouts back, lying.</p><p>Tony can only do so much to stay in the saddle while the pair of mules attached to its horn tug in every which direction. A few feet to his left, the mountain trail falls away into a steep slope that ends in a sea of rocks and debris at the bottom. Tony pretends not to feel sick and averts his eyes, fixing his gaze to the space between Butterfingers' ears. </p><p>The mare is taking the brunt of it, really. She's huffing as she climbs steadily up the rocky path like an ibex, almost dragging the mules behind her by force. They've got no choice but to follow, at least until a point in the near future when his horse's strength will eventually start to dwindle. </p><p>Tony knows she'll quickly run herself ragged at this pace, and he's going to need to come up with something if he wants to reach the cabin today; their ascend to the plateau will take another four hours if the words of the ranger who'd seen them off at the foot of the mountain held any truth.</p><p>The man was one of Cannon's. Him and a few others patrol the woods during the less hostile seasons of the year, scaring off wolves and rustlers to keep the peace. He'd worn an amicable smile when Rogers came striding through the door of his hut, one that had flickered and disappeared when he spotted Tony trailing behind him. </p><p>Tony can't say he blames the old man, because the picture he had to have made was pitiful if anything: unshaved, a knuckle-shaped bruise on his jaw, shadows underneath his eyes and looking about fifty pounds less capable than Rogers who could essentially be considered a half-god incarnate under a too-large hat.</p><p>If Tony hadn't been painfully aware of how not qualified he was for this job, he sure would've been then. </p><p>"This' your man?" the man asked flatly, in a tone that said '<em>This' everything you could find?' </em>so clearly it almost made Tony squirm in discomfort where he was standing. Almost, because a Stark doesn't know such a thing as submission.</p><p>Rogers nodded, missing the man's disappointment or maybe blatantly ignoring it, and Tony said, "Tony Carbonell, it's a pleasure," putting just enough ice in his voice to communicate the fact that it very much wasn't. The ranger grunted and shook his hand ever so tightly, unbothered by his presence as he went on to ramble about this and that and how his knee was giving him too much trouble or he would've gone up there himself. </p><p>After short rest, a brown slop that barely qualified as coffee and a conversation Tony had forgotten the moment he stepped back outside, the man showed them to the back of the hut, where a small roofing shielded half a dozen mules from the worst of the cold. Four of them were entirely packed with hay bales, the other two carried supplies and equipment under thick, dirty-white canvases.</p><p>They watered and fed the animals before setting off, Rogers taking the lead on top of his strawberry roan with a caravan of four mules trailing after him while Tony was left with two. They were either the most stubborn beasts he'd ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with, or he was even less prepared for this little adventure than he initially assumed. </p><p>For all Tony knows, both of these scenarios are equally as likely.</p><p>"They're workin' you two like hell, ain't they?" </p><p>Rogers' voice is closer than it was; looking up, Tony sees his caravan of mules waiting just a few feet away and reins his horse in. They've made halt at a mostly even stretch of trail, the other man turned awkwardly in his saddle to address Tony behind him. </p><p>He's looking at him like he's got half a mind to send him back where he came from. Suddenly, the thought of returning to the rats and the booze and the bed with the springs poking into his back doesn't sound appealing anymore. </p><p>Who knew? Anthony Stark is still capable of aspirations other than the wish to wallow in self-pity until the end of his days. </p><p>Rogers grimaces in something akin to sympathy and huffs a breath, helpless. The warm air forms little clouds of white in front of his mouth. His lips move, red and chapped from exposure, and Tony doesn't have the presence of mind to pay attention. The man's stubble is a fine dusting of dark blond hair still, but give it a few days and he's going to be sporting a beard. Maybe he'll grow it out; it might help against wind and weather a little, come to think of it. </p><p>It's also mighty attractive, but Tony has every intention of shoving that thought in a very far and dusty corner of his mind. He doesn't mean to get any stupid ideas, up there in the mountains where he's alone but for Steve Rogers and his own thoughts that sure as hell aren't always of the genius sort.</p><p>"You listenin' to me?" </p><p>Rogers scoffs through an eye-roll and Tony makes himself snap back to reality. </p><p>"Am now," he returns, his smirk lopsided. </p><p>The man sighs but repeats his previous words, which are more helpful than Tony might've imagined before – Rogers shows him how to wrap the rope over his shoulder and around his elbow, so his animal ballast will neither exhaust Butterfingers' nor his grip strength. Tony doesn't get it quite right in the beginning, but after some trial and error, he has the rope positioned right and is sitting in the saddle in a way that distributes the counterforce equally. </p><p><br/><em> Look at that, </em> he thinks, biting back a grin. <em> Literally showing me the ropes. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tony realizes some things aren't the way they seem. Herding cattle is one of them, Steve Rogers is another.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>In another three hours, they've made it to the plateau. </p><p>The dying sun throws colors ranging from pale yellow to deep orange over the untouched blankets of white, and the occasional pine tree is clad with snow. In the distance, a small hut at the side of the mountain (the peak of which towers far above the plateau still and encircles the area with three others of its kind) oversees the planes. </p><p>It would have been beautiful if Tony wasn't cold, exhausted and ready for something with a high enough percentage of alcohol to warm him from the inside. </p><p>"Too late to go lookin' for the herd now, we wouldn't make it back before dark," Rogers shouts at him from over his shoulder. "We'll have to go first thing in the mornin'."</p><p>Thank God. Tony doesn't voice his relief, but he's damn glad he's going to be spared that task for at least the day. He's pretty sure he's got bruises all over his ass. </p><p>The sun has disappeared from the horizon when they arrive at the cabin, its inside unlit and uninviting. Still, despite how worn down by time and weather the building looks – the boards washed out, stone chimney visibly crumbling, windows covered in old and new layers of dirt – it's preferable to the continually dropping temperatures nightfall brings. In another hour or so, it'll be freezing out. </p><p>Tony gets to stay outside and rub the animals dry with some straw while Rogers makes to start a fire. He had the idea to protest, of course – why does <em> he </em>have to freeze his ass off out here while Rogers gets to be inside – but then the other man dragged a chopping block out of the shed next to the outhouse, muttering some profanity or other under his breath, and began splitting the too-large pieces of wood stacked up alongside the eastern wall of the hut. </p><p>Tony hasn’t really had it in him two voice any complaints ever since the man brought that monstrosity of an axe down for the first time with a grunt that’ll be following him into his dreams. It’s been a day and he already can’t keep his thoughts contained to harmless territory. <em> Wonderful.</em> This winter is bound to be wonderful. If he doesn’t freeze to death, he’ll be guaranteed to have died of blue balls by the end of it.</p><p>While Rogers keeps preparing the firewood, Tony finishes his task and then starts to transfer everything they’ll need inside – supplies, blankets, spare pots and pans, and an armful of candles for when the kerosene runs out. They don’t have any fuel with them that Tony can see, and the lamps inside aren’t oil ones. (You don't want to put oil in a kerosene lamp; Tony tried once, and burned his eyebrows off. Who knew you could look hideous just losing some facial hair?) </p><p>The last shreds of daylight are gone and Tony’s hands are stiff from the cold when everything is finally over with and they're ready to retreat inside. The animals are taken care of and secured under the shelter, the equipment stored away, and there’s enough firewood inside to get them through the night.</p><p>Rogers pulls the door close and pushes the flimsy lock in place, a last gust of cool air carrying into the room before its kind is locked out entirely. Tony looks away before his gaze can linger, and returns to poking the humble beginnings of the fire crackling in the fireplace. He adds a few smaller chippings of wood just to be safe, watching as they’re consumed by the flames. </p><p>The cabin is, surprisingly, larger than it looks from the outside. There’s a reasonably sized oven with two hotplates sat on top, a square table with three chairs that squeak when sat on, a raggedy sofa in front of the fireplace and a narrow set of stairs crammed toward the back that leads up to small, second storey. It’s like an attic up there; the ceiling is low and slanted, and the entire space is occupied by the double-bed pushed away from the stairs and up to the tiny window overlooking the landscape outside.</p><p>Rogers descends the stairs, rubbing the back of his neck with a somewhat contemplative frown gracing his features. It seems he has also discovered the latest problem they’re faced with: arrangements regarding sleeping spaces have to be made.</p><p>“So, ah, do you mind,” he points at the sofa on which Tony is currently perched, surveilling the development of the fire. “Would you mind sleepin’ here, or d’ya want us to take turns?”</p><p><em> I have another idea, cowboy, </em>Tony thinks, smirking crookedly into the warmth of the fire.</p><p>Then, he looks up and faces Rogers. “I don’t,” he says, and that’s that. It can’t be worse than the bed he’s been sleeping in for the last few weeks; he’s sure the springs must have left visible imprints in his skin.</p><p> </p><p>The sofa is worse. </p><p> </p><p>Tony winces with every step that Butterfingers takes, the movement underneath him jostling his body in a way that amplifies his every ache hundredfold. His neck is stiff, the muscles in his shoulders tight, and his spine is a long line of throbbing pain that trails from his head to his low back. </p><p>There's also the various aches that yesterday's journey is responsible for, but that one was, at the very least, a once-off thing. If Rogers is unwilling to re-negotiate their sleeping arrangements, Tony will have to spend months (not) sleeping on this cursed piece of furniture. </p><p>It takes them almost until noon to find the herd. The horses are slow in the almost knee-high snow, and their search often leads them off negotiable trails and into rough terrain. </p><p>The nature is entirely untouched out here; Tony has never seen anything like it. It is as if they've entered a different world, where humanity and civilization are words that have no meaning. Mother nature reigns over these lands, and him and Rogers are just tiny, unimportant specks tainting her creation. They ride past planes of snow glittering in the early morning sun, an ice-clad creek that falls off into a miniature waterfall of icicles, and cross a frozen lake where Rogers points out a couple of animal prints that he claims are snowshoe rabbits'. </p><p>Tony has to look twice when they halt on a small elevation and the land below shows a sight that doesn't fit in with the rest, that is testament to man's intervention: a herd of roughly fifty cows, their brown and black coats standing out amidst the bright landscape. </p><p>When they have rounded up all the stray animals in the area, the sun has long taken its spot high up in the clear-blue sky. Tony hoped it would warm up a little, but the mountain air remains crisp and dry, and his throat becomes sore and swallowing is painful. </p><p>Tony trails behind the group, keeping his gaze locked onto Rogers who is far ahead taking the lead, steering them out of the narrow mountain basin they found the herd in. </p><p>The man explained it would be impractical and also dangerous to leave them here – the rock slopes that surround the area are steep and prone to avalanches, which is why finding and returning the herd to the plateau as soon as possible is of such high importance. Tony, <em> not </em> being a moron and all, can obviously see that it will only take a mild blizzard and a new, heavy layer of snow to trigger an avalanche. Doesn't take a genius (or intricate mountaineering knowledge) to figure that out. </p><p>As soon as they're back at the plateau, having driven the cattle to a spot not too far from the cabin, Rogers gestures in its vague direction, wordlessly suggesting they go get the feed right away. And so they trail back to the hut, Butterfingers and <em> Captain </em> – Tony still isn't over that – trotting steadily side by side. </p><p>"So, tell me, how's this little adventure treatin' you, Mr. Carbonell? Everythin' you imagined it'd be?" </p><p>Tony's gaze travels up from where he's been staring, transfixed, at a knot in Butterfingers' mane. (He'll have to brush that out later. Or cut it off. Depending on severity.) They haven't talked in what must be hours, and it's strange to hear the man address him so suddenly. His mind already begins to associate Rogers' low baritone with a feeling of comforting familiarity, which is, frankly, scary. </p><p>It's wrong to get attached this quickly, especially when that attachment doesn't stop at amicable companionship. Tony stomps out the feeling before it can take hold. </p><p>"There is a lot more silence, riding and pains in places I wasn't previously aware of involved than I expected, but all in all, I can't complain. Well, I <em> can</em>. But I won't, considering I practically begged you to let me tag along," he answers, looking over at Rogers whose stubble-framed mouth quirks into a half-smirk at the last part. </p><p>The other man hums in agreement. "You did," he says, sounding thoughtful. Then, he points at what Tony knows is his bruised jaw with a gloved finger. "That got anythin' to do with it, perchance? Runnin' away from somethin', maybe?" </p><p>Under his hat, he's clearly narrowing his eyes at Tony.</p><p>Although his first instinct is to reply in joking, maybe go off on an unprompted anecdote about how, <em> oh didn't you know</em>, he's an equally famed and ruthless gang leader running from the law, Tony ends up… not doing that. Perhaps the outlaw story is too much of a fitting allegory, only difference being that he hasn't committed murders in the typical sense and is now running from himself and his guilt. </p><p>Tony clears his throat. It's still raw, and his next inhale is deeper and by extent also more painful. </p><p>"I might be," he answers, knowing it'll come across a little ominous, "but not in the ways you seem to be thinking of." </p><p>Rogers' already palpable suspicion doesn't intensify. Instead, his stance in the saddle seems to loosen, and he nods at Tony as if they have come to some kind of understanding. He doesn't answer and his gaze is fixed on the cabin in the distance, and Tony has no clue what in the world just happened, but he'll take it. Rather that than having the man think he's a criminal on the loose – not that there's much difference there from a moral perspective, but the man doesn't know that. </p><p>Having arrived at the hut, they dismount. Rogers looks at him briefly over their horses' backs, his hands still gripping the saddle.</p><p>"I get it," he says, voice rugged it sends a shiver down Tony's spine, and turns away to fetch one of the hay bales. </p><p>And Tony thought he was being cryptic. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As they settle into a routine, Tony realizes that life as a cattleman up in the solitude of the mountains is terribly, <em> dreadfully… </em>boring.</p><p>The realization that there is nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass comes with a certain amount of terror, at least for him. Rogers has been aware of the intricacies of this job from the beginning, and he takes the monotony of their existence in stride. Every day anew, he’ll come barreling down the stairs (Tony is <em> still </em>sleeping on the damn, lumpy thing that barely qualifies as a couch) at the crack of dawn, not bothering to keep the noise down as he prepares coffee, reignites the embers in the fireplace, and wolfs down a ration of beef jerky. </p><p>Actually, Tony is sure he is deliberately causing a ruckus just so Tony will – with a grumble and a swear – get up without having to be told. He could certainly imagine <em> nicer </em>ways of being woken up, but that is just another in a long row of things that Tony doesn’t and will never bring up to Rogers in person.</p><p>Nobody would ever find his body up here.</p><p>Maybe that is an exaggeration. Rogers, underneath the impenetrable layer of grime and stoicism, seems like a nice enough character. Tony doesn’t get many glimpses of it, but there’s a certain softness, something delicate and kind that has maybe been curbed like Tony’s drive to create has a long time ago. It shows when he is interacting with animals; his horse, first and foremost, which he makes sure is cared for above all else and murmurs encouraging or apologetic or humorous things to depending on the situation. </p><p>Sometimes, Tony is a little insulted in his pride, really, because <em> hello</em>. Here he is, another human being, and Rogers prefers to talk to a damn horse. Mostly though, it’s endearing to witness, and Tony often has trouble looking away. But he does. He does look away like he’s supposed to, and instead pats Butterfingers’ neck in way of apology for not being quite as big of a horse-sympathizer as Rogers seems to be.</p><p>Despite all that though, the devastating truth remains: Tony doesn’t have anything to do. At all. Nothing. Nada. Nichts. Niente. </p><p>This is a different kind of dullness than the one that accompanied his days in Red Rock, all thanks to the fact that he now doesn’t have the option of drinking the time away.</p><p>He isn’t stupid, he brought a supply – Rogers shot him a glare that was in equal measures disappointed and disbelieving when he found that the space in Butterfingers’ saddlebags was almost entirely taken up by booze – but that doesn’t mean he can go and drink himself into a stupor for just the one magnificent, albeit blurry, night. </p><p>There’s an itch in his fingers. There's an itch and it makes him want to do just that every other second of every day and it’s near killing him, but he <em> can’t. </em>Everything that keeps Tony away from his now hidden stash under the sofa is the thought that if he guzzles it all now, he won’t have any later, and there is no telling if he can even get his hands on more. They’ll meet one of Cannon’s men halfway down the mountain for supplies and feed for the animals every week, but Tony doubts any of them will be inclined to send more booze up there with him even if he asks nicely.</p><p>Seeing as he doesn't have any other choice, Tony makes <strike>friends</strike> non-enemies with the fact that he will have to ration the alcohol if he wants to get by. He's run the numbers, and if he limits himself to a flask a week, he might just be able to make ends meet. </p><p>Knowing the theory is easy, putting it into practice is where things get tricky. A few sips a day are next to nothing for a raging alcoholic, and Tony has long stopped deluding himself about the reality of that fact about his person. That’s what he is. A no-good drunk. He might also be the first and only alcoholic to ever accidentally rehabilitate. Hilarious.</p><p>There's times where he's dangerously close to losing his grip on himself, but he has already had quite enough practice when it comes to holding back certain urges and this isn't all that different. It's another kind, but the want, the carnal need is the same, and Tony is an expert in biting his cheek bloody while he crushes the unwanted underneath his mental boot. </p><p>If he can resist a specimen like Steve Rogers, he can resist watered-down whiskey. </p><p>Tony takes a last sip and screws the cap back on. He allows the liquid to sit on his tongue for a moment and then swallows it down, relishing in the burn and the taste until every last trace of both is gone. </p><p>He stuffs the flask back into his saddlebags and throws a look over his shoulder, casting a glance at Rogers who's sitting on a tree stump on the other side of their small camp. They've put it up a sensible distance from the herd at a row of pines that provides some shelter from the wind and allows their fire to keep burning.</p><p>It's another one of the slow days – it is still up for debate whether the regular days can even get any slower – and Rogers has taken to one of his favorite activities. He's sketching in a well-worn, leather-bound book, the sound of pencil on paper now familiar to Tony's ears. </p><p>His surprise when he discovered that the man wasn't reading or journaling but rather <em> drawing </em>was pretty comical, if Rogers' amused chuckle was anything to go by. (Tony remembers that noise clear as day, because he thought it somehow sounded the way honey tasted. It's burned into his memory, hoarse and low and warm. Rogers doesn't chuckle often, and he smiles even less, but when he does it's a sight to behold.)</p><p>Tony doesn't feel like his initial astonishment was entirely unfounded. Rogers isn't a man whose affinity to the arts you'd be able to guess by looking at him. This is yet another thing that Tony files away, important information archived for a later assessment. There's many things you can't tell from the outside, which Tony, out of all people, should know best. The only reason why he's still here is because his innermost desires are hidden away, because he has learned there is no other option. </p><p>And perhaps, he isn't the only one out of the out of the two of them who is fighting tooth and nail to keep certain things under covers. </p><p>
  <em> I get it. </em>
</p><p>Whatever Rogers might've meant by those words – and Tony still has no way to tell, although he does have suspicions – maybe it's something that they have in common, that they share. Tony doesn't dare hope, but sometimes he catches the man looking, movement of his pencil paused as his eyes linger on Tony. Usually, he will avert his gaze as soon as their eyes meet and return to his work; on a rare occasion, they both remain frozen in place, staring as if it is a challenge, and it takes one of them to crumble and give for the moment to end. </p><p>This time, it's Tony who is caught staring. He pretends as if he doesn't mind this happening, casual as he saunters back to the camp. Tony sits down on a log close to the fire and rubs his hands together, warming them over the heat of the flames. When he looks back at Rogers, he is met with a raised eyebrow. </p><p>Tony nods at the book in the man's hand. "Am I ever going to see that? If the cold doesn't get me, I'll have died of curiosity long before I get off this mountain." </p><p>Rogers hangs his head and huffs a breath, not a scoff but not a simple exhale either. </p><p>"The sayin' does go 'curiosity killed the cat', so you might be onto somethin' there," the man returns, and although he does a good enough job at painting over it with practiced indifference, there's still the hint of a smirk there. </p><p>"That is not a no," Tony points out, helpfully. </p><p>Rogers pauses. Then, he does smirk. A subdued one, but it's there. </p><p>"It's called a… subliminal message, I believe. Thought you smart city folk would know all about that." </p><p>Tony opens his mouth, stunned, and closes it again when the other man promptly goes back to his drawing. He bites his tongue. The man's devilishly handsome, intriguing <em> and </em>has a decent sense of humor once you peel back that hardened outside layer? </p><p><em> Why, isn't that grand, </em>Tony thinks, resigned. He's got an ever bigger problem than he ever knew to plan for. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony tastes bile in his mouth. The animal is on its side, stomach ripped open and guts spilling onto the ground beneath, snow dyed a crimson red. If Rogers' assumptions are to be believed, the body isn't all that old, but it still smells like– well. Like dead meat. It's not a pleasant smell. </p><p>The other man is kneeling right in front of the once brown and white checkered cow, studying the teeth marks in the flesh. Tony can barely stand the sight as it is; he doesn't know how this madman does it. In fact, he needs something to settle his stomach. Right now. </p><p>While Tony, more frantically than he likes to admit, rummages for his flask in Butterfingers' bags, Rogers comes back up to standing and approaches from the side. His nose wrinkles minimally as he watches Tony take two, three, four gulps from the beverage. Tony catches himself on the last one and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Rogers, who is somehow looking impartial but also judgemental, is regarded with a narrow-eyed look.</p><p>Instead of commenting on Tony's habit, he says, "Wolf. Maybe wolverine, but they don’t go for game that large. Unless they're desperate." He swings himself back onto his mount, gnawing at his temperature-induced split lip. "We'll need to, ah, spend a night. If they made a kill once, chances are they'll come back for a second serving, and we can't have them thinnin' out the herd." </p><p>Tony doesn't groan in frustration, but it's a close one. Sure, it's necessary, a reasonable solution without doubt, but – Christ, he hasn't slept properly in weeks, and now he's, what, on guard duty because local wildlife decided to go for the easiest available dinner? </p><p>The desperation must show in his face, because Rogers looks at him for a moment, contemplating, and then sighs in defeat as if giving up a mental argument against himself. </p><p>"I don't need you t'keep watch. One of us'll do. Just, ah, keep the fire goin', yeah?"</p><p>With that, the man kicks his strawberry roan into a slow walk, away from the carcass and toward the southern side of the plateau where the herd strayed to during the previous, evidently tumultuous night. Tony exhales wearily and follows. </p><p>Another three months. Just three more months and he's done with this. He has survived worse. </p><p>Tony stays in that night while Rogers returns to the herd. He's wearing even more layers than usual, the high collar of a thick, woolen coat framing his face as he pokes his head in through the door, raising a hand to signal that he will be on his way. Tony returns the gesture and later watches through the window as the man leaves, rifle over his shoulder. </p><p>As night falls, Tony finds himself looking out the window repeatedly, always checking for the single, small glimmer of light that belongs to Rogers' fire at the camp. He eats a single serving of canned beans, grimacing at the taste all the way through, and has to wash the bites down with swigs of whiskey. Only when he can hardly keep his eyes open does he leave his seat by the window. </p><p>Tony sleeps in the bed upstairs. Bliss, finally. </p><p>The next few evenings, he's alone in the cabin. Rogers doesn't encounter any predators during his stay at the camp but insists it's necessary they keep watch and isn't to be convinced otherwise. </p><p>After a few nights and after each of which Rogers turns even less talkative,  increasingly irritated and snaps at Tony for comments he would have previously only rolled his eyes at, Tony takes mercy on him (and on himself, because the man is exhausting to be around when he's tired and moody). </p><p>Or rather, Tony <em> attempts </em>to make life easier on both of them, but Rogers isn't having it.</p><p>"No," he answers curtly, bringing the axe down on another log in the same uncompromising manner he has just rejected Tony's suggestion. He doesn't even have the common courtesy of looking at him. </p><p>Tony huffs in exasperation. "This is unreasonable. Nothing's happened yet, and nothing will happen this night. Just let me keep watch, and you–" </p><p>The axe slams into the chopping block yet again. This time, Rogers leaves it there in the wood and straightens, turning to face Tony. </p><p>"My answer ain't gonna change, Carbonell. Can join me if it helps your conscience."</p><p> </p><p>Better than nothing, Tony figures. </p><p> </p><p>They wait out the following nights at the campsite together.</p><p>Rogers has put up a makeshift tent, a large cloth that is strung up on the trees above and the main purpose of which seems to be giving the impression of shelter rather than actually providing some. Tony can think of a few ways to improve it, but he doesn't take action. It wouldn’t matter anyway anyway, because the temperatures don't allow for sleep to come, tent and fire or no. </p><p>Although they planned to take turns sleeping, they end up outside, sitting together in silence more often than not. The atmosphere in these late nights would be almost comfortable if not for the cold. </p><p>There's something about the deep of the night that is more intimate here. Everything is still and swallowed by darkness but for the patch of land where they have set up camp, illuminated by the crackling fire. From nightfall until daybreak, the world is condensed to this small, freezing speck of earth, and they're the only people in it. Everything could happen here, and none of it would ever leave these mountains. </p><p>It's lonely, it's haunting. <em> But still beautiful, in a way, </em>Tony thinks, risking a glance at the man across from him, hat pushed up on his head. It’s baring his face, covered in a full beard that is darker than his golden hair, the skin beneath tinged red from the cold and blue eyes darker than they ever are during the day. </p><p>These long days and longer nights come and go. </p><p>Sometimes, ghostly shadows of unforgotten memories dance across Rogers' face when he's staring into the embers of their dying fire, and it makes Tony feel a little bit better, a little bit less alone, knowing that he's not the only one running from his demons.</p><p>Although one might argue that one of his demons always keeps his company. The flask of whiskey has traveled from his saddlebags to his vest pocket and never remains untouched or unfilled. He carries it with him like an injured deer would drag its broken leg; a burden, a hindrance, and one he's not going to relieve himself of at that. Until the day it finally kills him, that is.</p><p>Most nights, Rogers eyes him disapprovingly over the flames of the campfire, fair skin glowing orange in its light, and doesn't comment on Tony's drinking habit. One time, Tony offers his flask, the action a simple act of provocation which means he’s expecting to be told off at best. Rogers takes it from his hand instead, their fingers touching briefly, and takes a generous gulp before handing it back.</p><p>Tony makes a mental note to not make the mistake of underestimating the man's unfailing ability to prove even God himself wrong.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It's the next night that Rogers' body finally gives up the fight; as in, he passes out and hopefully catches up on enough sleep for him to go back to being his slightly less grumpy and slightly more amicable self. </p><p>Tony manages to spend a few more hours with only himself, his thoughts and the booze before he can't stop pretending anymore. He has spotted the leather-bound book lying on top of the bedroll next to the fire a few hours ago, and he's been burning with curiosity ever since. </p><p>Rogers hasn't noticeably gone out of his way to keep its contents secret, but Tony can definitely sense that this is something private, that there is a certain protectiveness he feels toward it. It means that in one way or another, there'll be answers in this book. Answers about this man who is so peculiar in the way he locks everything away behind a face that seems to know only the matter of fact. Answers Tony <em> needs </em>or he will catch goddamn mountain madness in these next few months. </p><p>Believe him, don't believe him, it's all the same to Tony, but he actually does still have a moral compass. He knows this is all but right, invading another person’s privacy the way he's doing right now. And yet – even knowing better, Tony does it, like he has done so many things that came before it. </p><p>When he has fetched the book, Tony opens it hurriedly, not even daring to sit down. </p><p>The book feels thicker in his hands than it looks, its many pages welling and making it appear broader. Flipping it open, Tony spotts the first couple of drawings. Human shapes, faces and portraits, most of them unfinished sketches. They could be anyone. On the sixth page is a single finished drawing of a woman, the big curls of her dark hair framing prominent facial features. </p><p>Come the next page, the human shapes are replaced by drawings of landscapes and animals. There are snow-clad mountains that look similar to those around them, a lake covered in ice, paw prints embedded in the snow on top of it. A swarm of snow geese and a single moose, its mighty antlers held high. </p><p>When he turns the page again, the landscapes and animals vanish into thin air, making room for... Tony. It's all Tony, from a close-up of his mustache to a sketch of him outside the hut, brushing off Butterfingers with an easy smile on his face. It's him at the campfire, illuminated by its glowing embers, him with dishevelled hair and an oversized coat that the thinks might be Rogers'. </p><p>At least five spreads of the notebook are occupied by Tony's countenance, and the silence grows louder in his own ears as he keeps staring at the last filled page, where sketched Tony, not entirely finished, is perched on his horse and looking upon the sun coming into view behind a mountain range. </p><p>Tony stills. He throws the book back onto the bedroll where he picked it up from, suddenly overwhelmed. His head snaps in the direction of the tent, but Rogers is still sleeping soundly, entirely unaware of what has just transpired. </p><p>Frankly, he expected many things when he went to pick up this most treasured personal possession. He expected – well, Tony doesn't know what exactly he anticipated. Maybe to be disappointed. Disappointment would at least have been safe. This, however, is far from it. This means everything and nothing at once. It might be the man simply got tired of other motives and Tony caught his artist's eye, or Tony is intriguing him in a way that has nothing at all to do with their relationship, platonic or otherwise. </p><p>Or <em> maybe </em> – Tony feels something curl tight and hot in his chest – maybe he, too, has found himself wanting. And this is where his feelings go, whereas Tony drowns them in drink because while everyone copes differently, this is where their differences truly come to light. Rogers turns the bad into something good, while he only knows to destroy. </p><p>Tony startles, winces, and realizes it's because he's achingly hard underneath two layers of thick, cotton breeches. </p><p><em>Fuck</em>. </p><p>He bites back a groan and his panicked gaze flits yet again to where the other man is sleeping. Swallowing down another noise of need, he tries to steer his thoughts away from the matter at hand, but it's to no avail. Tony fishes the flask out of his pocket to calm his wild, racing heartbeat, and waits out the initial surge of agitation. </p><p>Only there is no initial surge; it's a low, constant thrum in the back of his head, and Tony feels himself tremble with it where he's still standing in the middle of camp, like abandoned. </p><p>He needs to–</p><p>Tony swears, angrily but also in desperation, as leaves the immediate vicinity of the fire. He's stumbling more than he's walking, his erection making every step a hassle. Finally, he turns back around, eyes wide and paranoid as he guesses at the distance between him and the camp.</p><p>It'll have to do. Tony’s standing by a tree and leans against it for support while he wrestles with cloth and buttons until he's managed to free himself from his pants. The cool air makes him suck in a sharp breath, but Tony doesn't acknowledge it any further. He can't wait anymore. </p><p>The sudden, unbearable need is frightening. He isn't a stranger to this, touching himself with thoughts he shouldn't be having in the midst of the night, but he feels even more depraved for it – out here where there's nothing to shield him, nowhere to hide. </p><p>And still, Tony keeps stroking himself toward completion, the rough palm of his hand rubbing the skin raw. He wonders how Rogers' would feel in its stead, whether it'd be softer, or harsher, or more punishing in its grip than Tony's is. The man's hands are bigger than his own – Tony has stared at them for prolonged periods of time, and he has been able to make that out very clearly. They're bigger, maybe big enough his prick would almost disappear entirely in his fist. </p><p>Tony wonders whether it'd be sensible to reason the size of other parts of Rogers' anatomy from the size of his hands. </p><p>He suppresses a moan, but a small, breathy huff still escapes through his clenched teeth. Tony feels his fingers dig painfully into the bark of the tree he's holding onto while his other hand is clenching harder around his length, trying to get the most pleasure out of the last, frantic strokes. </p><p>When he peaks, he has to bite the sleeve of his coat to muffle his shout. Tony breathes heavily for a few, long beats that make the silence much more prominent, and then tucks himself back into his pants. </p><p>Everything left of his deed is guilt and an unnoticeable trace that blends into the snow.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tony's supply runs out sooner than expected. The consequences are manifold.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Tony is sneaking back to the campsite, head still spinning with his most recent discovery, when the noises come. </p><p>Howls. One, in the beginning, but a few more are quick to emerge in way of answer. It has to be a small group at the least. Tony almost falls over himself as he wades through the snow back to the fire, but there's no need for the rush – Rogers is already up and alert as if he's never been asleep at all (and boy, does Tony not want to entertain that idea). Both of his hands have a firm grip on the hunting rifle, and it's clear he means to end this once and for all. </p><p>"You stay here," he says when he lays eyes on Tony appearing between the trees, in a tone that doesn't leave room for argument. Like Tony's a dog to be told when to go heel and when to sit.</p><p>Before Tony gets to argue his case, Rogers turns on his heel and stomps out into the night, the safety latch on the rifle clicking as it's released. The herd isn't far off; their bodies, pressed together, are a single dark splotch visible from camp. Still, the light doesn't reach out there. Rogers might know his way around a gun alright, but even he won't be able to hit any targets when he can't see them. </p><p>Tony Stark sure as hell won't be ordered to sit idle when he knows he can be of use. It's one thing for Rogers to take care of those tasks he's better suited for and hand off the idiot-proof ones that even the most out-of-touch city slicker could manage to Tony, but this is downright ridiculous. Their job up here is one and the same and he'll do his part just as Rogers does, occupational hazards be damned. </p><p>With fingers that may be shaking from both the cold and dark apprehension, Tony grabs the lantern tied to Butterfingers' saddle by its handle. It takes him three attempts to get a match lit, and he tosses it into the snow as soon as the flame has caught. Then, he follows Rogers' footprints out into open land – and jolts to a halt when he hears movement of multiple bodies. </p><p>The herd is moving, agitation tangible in the air. A few of the animals pass Tony close by, fast as can be in the snow, their eye-whites showing and signaling anxiety. </p><p>He can't see Rogers and doesn't know where he's gone. Could be anywhere amongst the cattle, or maybe he's rounding the group to search the perimeter– </p><p>Tony freezes where he's standing when the howls re-emerge, closer this time. Much closer. Close enough his brain suddenly suspects all the shadows around him to turn into the shapes of wolves any given moment. Tony looks around him, rotating in place frantically, but even the light he's carrying doesn't do much against the dark of night. </p><p>A gunshot permeates the air.</p><p>Later, Tony won't be sure if he imagined it, but he thinks he feels something zipping past his cheek and it causes him to flinch. All hell breaks loose in the fraction of a second – there's a bark, a wounded whine, and a hoard of lowing cattle storms past him, luckily parting around him as they do. </p><p>In the midst of it all, Rogers comes storming in his direction, teeth bared and the look in his eyes wild. </p><p>"I told you t'stay<em> back!" </em> he bellows. "Is everythin' a <em> goddamn </em> joke to you?" </p><p>Tony watches, admittedly a little dumbstruck, as the man draws closer. For a moment, he thinks Rogers will deck him, no holds barred, and <em> for the love of God please don't knock out any teeth </em> – but when he actually arrives, it's not with his fist in Tony's face. Instead, he grabs him by both shoulders and draws him impossibly, indecently close, blue eyes flitting over Tony's features for some unbearable seconds that last forever. Tony's gaze involuntarily drops down to the man's lips, like iron being drawn to a magnet. He feels warm breath grazing his skin and desperately tries not to think about how easy it would be to bridge the remaining distance between them. </p><p>After that, Rogers shakes him a last time and backs off, and Tony can only do so much to catch himself and not fall on his ass with the force of his push. The other man walks past him, attention suddenly directed elsewhere, and falls down onto one knee next to the cowering shape of an animal lying in the snow. </p><p><em> Oh</em>. It turns out it wasn't just paranoia that Tony felt back there, because that's a wolf alright. </p><p>When he steps closer and holds the lantern up, the bloody patches in its gray fur become visible. It's still alive and breathing, though, even if the breath making its stomach flutter up and down is shallow. During every other pant, the wolf sounds a low whimper, and Tony feels suddenly sick to the stomach. </p><p>Rogers stands back up, and there's a touch of rue in his voice when he says, "Sorry, bud."</p><p>Tony knows what's coming, but the sound of the second shot still causes him to wince. Without another look at him or the carcass, Rogers heads back to camp. </p><p>He doesn't have it in him to bring it up that very night, but the next day he mentions the rather obvious fact while they’re preparing lunch.</p><p>"You can admit it, you know? It worked. You'd have never made that shot if I hadn't been there playing well-lit bait." </p><p>The other man stops stirring the unappetizing contents of the stew cooking on the stove, snorts, and returns to his task. </p><p>"I wouldn't've <em> had </em>to make that shot if you hadn't been about t'be torn t'shreds," he answers. Although his tone is markedly airy, there's an accusatory, almost angry undercurrent swinging in it, and his lip twitches up and down with a strange emotion.</p><p>Steve Rogers isn't a pretty marble statue void of emotion. Who would have guessed? </p><p>"We scared them off is what matters, or not? I don't know about you, but I for one am looking forward to getting some shut-eye again."</p><p>If he sees Rogers looking at him with brows furrowed in disapproval out of his peripheral vision, Tony doesn't mention it. There’s just no pleasing that man; maybe it was a close call, but nothing happened in the end. How is it that even when Tony’s being useful for once, he finds something to nag about?</p><p>"Let's not count our chickens before they're hatched." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>No further predator-related incidents occur. </p><p>Tony would be smug about and rub said development in Rogers’ face if a much bigger problem wasn’t about to arise on the horizon, one that consumes his every waking thought once he notices.</p><p>It first comes to his attention a few days after the fact, when Rogers is out riding down the mountain to get another week’s supplies and feed for the animals. As always, Tony uses the opportunity to refill his flask in peace; he still has the booze stored under the couch cushions and he has every intention of keeping its location hidden from the other man. Guy's self-righteous enough he would probably think pouring it all down the drain would mean doing Tony a favor in some fucked-up, roundabout way. Lift the curse of inebriety from him, like an angel descending from the skies (one that is also much too easy on the eyes to be allowed anywhere near him).</p><p>Tony has to do a double take at his stash, because there’s a lot more empty than filled bottles there than he anticipated. He even rubs his eyes, but the sobering (ha!) reality remains the same: there’s a little over sixteen ounces left. Taking the bottle out, he studies the sloshing liquid inside with pursed lips and thinks. He didn’t believe he’d gone all that far over his allotted rations in the past weeks, but it makes sense in retrospect. </p><p>Refills were a much more frequent occurrence than he had accounted for in his calculation, and it didn’t even register with his brain. Well, no. It probably did. He just had no desire to acknowledge what was clearly happening, namely that he’s been falling off the wagon and is now paying the price.</p><p>Tony bites his cheek and stores the bottle away again. </p><p>He tries to keep away from it, but even before his resolve breaks, there’s part of him that knows this is an exercise in futility. His willpower only reaches so far, and this past month has already tested his self-control to the limit. There isn’t much left in him.</p><p>Rogers has just bid him a goodnight and disappeared upstairs, and that last tendon of restraint in Tony snaps. </p><p>With fumbling fingers, he pulls the bottle out and the cork off. He doesn’t, as would be the sensible thing to do, fill his flask and leave it at that. The haze of his craving has him chugging the last remains of his supply, and when the final drop lands on his tongue, Tony blinks in bewilderment like it hasn’t all disappeared in his own greedy throat but dried up with the snap of a finger that he had no control over whatsoever. When the severity of the situation dawns on him, it takes his all (the fear of Rogers seeing and looking askance at him in his misery) not to smash the bottle on the floor in frustration.</p><p>Things get worse by the day.</p><p>They’re approaching deep winter at a steady pace, and it reflects in the temperatures. The winds pick up, the weather turns fitful and harsh; clouds cover the skies more often than not, bringing with them more snow and the first storms. Rogers expands the shelter next to the hut to shield the horses and mules from the worst of it. He’s hammering away at a plank of wood when Tony cuts in again from where he’s standing by his side, watching.</p><p>“You know this would be done twice as fast if you let me help.”</p><p>Rogers doesn’t turn around and the steady clangs of the tool in his hands don’t pause, not even for a moment. “If you can show me your hand right now and it ain’t shakin’, I’ll be happy to,” he drawls.</p><p>Tony blames the tremors on the cold. He doesn’t have an excuse for the heart palpitations, excessive sweating and the way everything’s suddenly brighter, louder and harsher yet, but he’ll come up with something. He always does. In the meantime, lingering and doing nothing won’t bring him any relief. Tony <em> needs </em> to busy himself with something, if only to experience a brief second during which he can forget about all these wrong choices he’s made that led him down this path and ultimately landed him here, in this shitshow of a situation.</p><p>“Then, I don’t know, give me something to do that doesn’t require steady hands! It’s as if you're purposely looking to make life harder on yourself,” Tony snaps, fingers curling into fists where he’s shoved them into his coat’s pockets to hide the worst of the trembling. </p><p>Now, Rogers does turn around, a scowl hardening his features. If he's doing him the favor of looking at him because he has just finished his work or because he needs to be scowling at Tony for what comes next is anyone’s guess.</p><p>“What I <em> want </em>is not havin’ to carry a damn corpse off this mountain. You need to take it easy, you’re in withdrawal.”</p><p>Tony sort of, kind of… implodes. He feels his own face being pulled into an angry grimace, and points an accusing finger at Rogers. </p><p>“And you need to get off your high fucking horse! I’m a notorious, good-for-nothing drunk – Congratulations, Rogers, you got to the bottom of it! Doesn’t mean you have the right to treat me like an <em> invalid!</em>” </p><p>His finger is shaking. The other man raises a meaningful eyebrow at him, as if to say ‘There, you’re proving my point and contradicting your own’. He hasn’t budged an inch where he’s standing even in the face of Tony’s ire, and now too, his stance and face remain unmoving. </p><p>Tony deflates. The rage is still sizzling somewhere in his gut, but it’s subdued, forced beneath the surface again. As is always the case, Rogers isn’t particularly affected by his moods, and there lies no satisfaction in lashing out when the reaction is so unspectacular. In any case, what Tony really needs isn’t to blow off some steam. The actual solution to the problem is apparent.</p><p>“I need some booze. There’s– no way around it. And I’m, listen, I’m going to give you the money and the next time you go down there, you’re going to tell them that <em> we </em>need some. And if they get it for us no questions asked, there’ll be even more in it for them.”</p><p>Rogers pulls back, jaw clenching visibly. </p><p>“No.”</p><p><em> Excuse me? </em> Tony stares, befuddled, but Rogers returns to his work and doesn't utter another word, even after Tony has gone on a tirade highlighting all the very obvious reasons why leaving him in this condition is a bad idea.</p><p>Finally, Tony throws his hands up and goes back inside, slamming the door of the cabin close behind him hard enough the wood creaks in agony. He's done standing around and he's done offering his help time and again only to be disrespected for it. The shed can collapse on Rogers (and hopefully knock some of that righteous bullshit out of his head) for all he cares. </p><p>This is a declaration of war. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony leaves early in the morning, just before the break of dawn.</p><p>The mules are still beasts, and if you were one to believe that horses can express complex emotions, Tony would say Butterfingers' soft whinny and twitching ears speak of surprise and mild disgruntlement. Mostly in response to being woken earlier than usual, but a part of him also thinks that she doesn't agree with being an active participant in this endeavor. </p><p>It's not like this is his first choice – he has brought the matter up with Rogers another three times, but received only curt comments along the lines of "it's not up for discussion" or was simply ignored and brushed off like an irritating horsefly. </p><p>Seeing as there's no way to persuade this bull of a man otherwise once he's set his mind to something, Tony sees fit to take matters into his own hands. He'll be long gone once Rogers wakes up, and the man won't have another option but to stay here while Tony picks up the delivery – and hopefully convinces someone to get him a little something else next time around while he's at it. </p><p>The descent takes longer than the way up ever did. Tony frowns as he stores the pocket watch back inside his coat, and clicks his tongue to spur his horse back into a walk. Three hours already and he's still way off from the meeting spot. Yeah, well – he neither accounted for the fact that four mules are much damn harder to handle than a measly two nor that the masses of snow covering the trail are more difficult to negotiate now than back during their ride up. </p><p>After various winding paths, issues primarily caused by stubborn mules and another three hours, Tony's caravan has made it down to the agreed upon place. The foot of the mountain is visible from here; it figures that they would make them trail all the way down here instead of meeting somewhere in the middle. He scoffs as he swings off Butterfingers' back and ties the horse to a low-hanging branch nearby. </p><p>His early departure comes with a price, because despite the long journey, he waits another two hours or so until Cannon's men show up. Tony snaps out of his half-sleep with a jerk when he hears the voices of riders approaching, and straightens hurriedly. Without anything else to do, he's been dozing off leaning against Butterfingers' warm shape for some time. </p><p>There's a certain wariness about the men when they first see him – their chatter ceases and one of them leans into the others' space to mutter something as they approach. </p><p>"You's the other one?" </p><p>The first one to arrive is an older man with graying hair and he makes a show off rearranging his coat so the gun in his holster is revealed to Tony. Oh, great. </p><p>"Yeah. It's, ah, Carbonell," Tony is quick to answer, aiming to snuff out any suspicions they might have. "Rogers figured I wasn't pulling my weight, hence here I am. Taking over new duties."</p><p>He gets a scoff in response – something that was maybe meant to be a chuckle but came out less humorous and more snide. The man studies him for another moment, expression unreadable. Finally, he waves the others to him and says, "I can see that. A'ight, boys, get 'em over here."</p><p>Tony isn't sure if he's supposed to respond to the insult because truth is, he isn't much to look at. Small frame, almost sickly pale and that's not to mention his still shaking hands that are on full display when the rangers bring their loaded caravan of mules over and he has to tie them to his saddle in exchange for the other ones. </p><p>He figures it's now or never. After he has handed over the animals, he returns to address the man who's clearly in charge. "So, ah, we were wondering whether you'd be inclined to get us something extra for the next one." </p><p>When the other doesn't respond, he keeps going, searching his pockets for the bundle of dollar notes. "Whiskey, maybe gin. A few bottles to get us through. It's a little dreary at times, up there, and– we'd appreciate it." </p><p>There's a second of silence during which the man narrows his eyes at him, and Tony inwardly sighs in resignation; maybe he's combined the clues, or will reject the request out of spite. As a last resort Tony holds out the money to him and adds, "Our appreciation is of monetary value, of course." </p><p>It's half a moment after that that the ranger takes the bundle and responds, "A'ight, son. Long as y'manage to stay in the saddle." </p><p><em> Son. Psh</em>. There's maybe fifteen years between them, give or take. He bites back the comment and nods tightly, returning to his horse while the men move to set off down the mountain. </p><p>Tony sighs to himself and gets going as well. If he's lucky, he'll make it back before dark. </p><p> </p><p>He isn't lucky. </p><p> </p><p>The steady incline wears all of them out – rider and animals. To battle the effects of exhaustion, they take breaks more often, and the sun slowly but gradually descends from its highest point in the sky. It worries Tony, but he thinks they would’ve persevered nevertheless and made it back by nightfall.</p><p>Would have, because that particular scenario never eventuates. What happens instead is of a much less desirable nature, and the ramifications are more severe than Tony comes to realizes in the first moment. Granted, the first moment also takes him by surprise, so he can’t be blamed.</p><p>They’re in the process of crossing a shallow, partially frozen riverbed when Butterfingers halts in her step, jolting Tony out of his daydreams. Her nostrils are flaring, ears coming to lay flat on her head and eyes widening all in the span of a few heartbeats. Tony barely has time to react to the sudden development before she starts sidling about, the other animals in tow getting a whiff of her anxiety and following suit.</p><p>Tony follows their line of sight and sees it: on top of the embankment they’re approaching, the imposing silhouette of a wolf has appeared. It still is a considerable distance away, but the horse has evidently picked up the scent. Tony muses that the animal might just be part of the pack they scared off a few weeks prior – could be they migrated down here in search for prey. </p><p>He doesn’t get to contemplate the thought for long. The wolf moves, and so does Butterfingers. There is a brief moment in which Tony is aware of her rearing, but the knowledge doesn’t help the fact that the world turns upside down and he goes flying shortly thereafter. The clopping of hooves all around suggests that his little caravan is splitting up and straying everywhere without any regard for the bone-chilling panic <em> that </em>elicits in him because how in God’s name is he supposed to–</p><p>When gravity finally has Tony meeting the ground, everything fades into the background in behalf of the sudden, debilitating spark of pain shooting up into his body from a place low in his leg. He cries out despite himself, but manages to muffle any further sounds as the initial surge passes and only a continuous, hot throb in his ankle is left.</p><p>Tony heaves himself into a sitting position, and it now dawns on him where exactly he’s landed: just on the riverbank, his backside soaking wet. Lady Luck seems to enjoy playing him for a fool today. He studies the injured foot, wincing in pain with every touch. It hurts like hell, but isn’t broken – he knows how a broken bone feels, and this isn’t it.</p><p>Once he has assessed the damage done to his person, Tony looks around. He’s alone, completely and utterly. No horse, no mules, no nothing. Well, no group of hungry canines is greeting him either, so there is a silver lining leastwise. He shudders as a chill washes over him. It’s high time he gets out of the water.</p><p>Heaving himself upright on one leg is a struggle, but Tony makes it at last. He starts to hobble along the trail, only pausing to rip a reasonably durable branch off a nearby tree to craft a makeshift crutch. On horseback, it would have taken at least another hour to the plateau; at the speed he’s going now, well. The odds sure aren’t in his favor.</p><p>Tony squares his jaw and keeps going, as soaked through, injured and despondent as he may be.</p><p>Daylight wanes, and the shadows of the falling night begin to cling to every stone and every tree and every turn in the path before him. Behind every corner, every elevation, the trail keeps stretching onward.</p><p>It starts snowing. Flakes light as feathers, at first, and then the wind picks up and the crystals become pinpricks in Tony’s face. The rock and vegetation disappear, swallowed by swirling gusts of white, and with that his last points of orientation are gone. </p><p>There’s nothing but snow, <em> always </em>the goddamned snow, and if Tony’s hated it before he now despises it with his whole being. </p><p>He’s distantly aware his teeth are chattering, a <em> clack clack clack </em>reverberating in the alarmingly empty space of his mind, presently focused on nothing but survival. Before, there was cold creeping into his every bone, but he doesn’t feel it anymore, as if his body has accepted it as his natural state of being. Tony knows that doesn't bode well for him; his core temperature might already be falling. Maybe his heartbeat has slowed, he isn’t sure.</p><p>Just the one moment of inattentiveness is enough. Tony steps on an icy patch of ground and loses his footing. With a yelp, he finds himself on the floor yet again, the pain of impact uncharacteristically distant. Tony writhes helplessly in the snow as he tries to get back to standing – the crutch is somewhere he can’t <em> see, </em>and the ground beneath him is pure ice. </p><p>His heartbeat spikes, cold sweat making his skin itch underneath his clothes that have grown stiff with cold. Tony swallows. There are tears of angry frustration stinging in his eyes. He yells, maybe in desperation, in the naive hope that someone will hear, but there is no answer.</p><p>The memory is unimportant, but he thinks back to it now as he lies there in the snow, suddenly still. His foolish, first thought when they approached this place, when nothing mattered and nothing would be the worse or the better for it if he died. At the time, Tony didn’t think he’d ever find himself in this situation, but as is common with thoughts like these, they come back to make you regret ever having entertained them. </p><p>What’s he been thinking? He isn’t ready to go belly up in these mountains, isn’t ready to do the same in Red Rock either, for that matter. He needs redemption over salvation, still has– things to make up for, something, anything to do before– before they bury him face down and nobody’s ever going to look at his grave twice because he doesn’t have anyone left to care whether he lives or dies.</p><p>Or maybe he is being too optimistic; maybe he won’t get a grave, maybe they’ll never find his body or Rogers will decide to leave him here because Tony didn’t listen and thus sealed his own fate, and this is what he deserves. (And in a twisted, roundabout way, it’ll still be the booze that'll have killed him.)</p><p>Perhaps, Tony thinks, muscles hurting as he smiles a delirious smile, Rogers will find his body and mourn, and the last drawing of Tony Stark in his sketchbook will be one of a frozen corpse. He will have regrets, will think about the many glances, the long moments and missed opportunities. In the nights, he will torture himself with the what-ifs, with the things that could’ve been had he only, with everything that would be different if they had acted sooner.</p><p>Tony hears his voice in his mind, and he might not be at peace in the end but it’s a pleasant sound all the same. He is using Tony’s given name; not Carbonell, not Stark. <em> Tony.</em> It would be even nicer if the pitch of it wasn’t so full of apprehension that gradually bleeds into suppressed panic as it becomes louder, almost… closer.</p><p>If he wasn't already stiff with cold, his every muscle would go rigid now, as he processes what this indicates. His whole body aches with it, but Tony lifts his head nevertheless. He needs to know, just needs to make sure it’s only his brain conjuring up a hallucination that will comfort him as he’s about to go out. </p><p>There’s a light. And it flickers, shines through the storm sometimes clearly and sometimes not. There is nothing ethereal about it, nothing godlike. Not that he's ever believed in the nonsense anyway. The light's the same one he has, in the lantern that is always swinging from Butterfingers’ saddle, but the horse that’s approaching isn’t his and the rider sat on top–</p><p>“Tony! To– Tony?” </p><p>A short pause. Then, the man jumps off his horse’s back in the matter of seconds, approaching with great, long strides that seem to cut through the snow like a knife through molten butter. </p><p>“Jesus fuckin’ <em> Christ,</em> Carbonell,” he huffs out in something like wheeze, leaning over him. Tony hears only relief in it, and his lips flutter up and down in the useless attempt of a smirk.</p><p>Rogers cares. He cares <em>too </em>much. That is what all these irritating instances of him not wanting Tony doing this or that were about, and it’s taken him this near-death experience to figure out. (Well, the <em> near </em>is still up for debate.) Tony would be feeling something akin to happiness if he could still feel his body, but as it is, he doesn't think of feel much of anything. </p><p>Rogers lifts him into his arms without further ado, tucking him tight against his chest as he walks back to the horse. Tony can’t quite– he can’t keep his eyes open, but he thinks that is sincere worry causing Rogers’ brows to knit. The hat is pulled into his face, and it shields him from most of the snow; Tony can understand why he never takes the stupid thing off a little better now.</p><p>“Stay with me now,” Rogers says, again in a voice that allows for no compromise. Tony isn’t allowed to go anywhere, no matter if his body would like to or not. It’s a command, sharp and yet soft at the core. The message is– soft, because it reveals… it reveals what Rogers has kept under covers all this time. He wants Tony around. He wants–</p><p>Tony’s lifted onto the horse, one leg at first, and then Rogers pushes him up with a strained grunt. The whimper he utters as his injured ankle is stirred with the movement comes out more like a hoarse gurgle. The other man pauses and assesses his reaction. Then he puts a boot in the stirrup and sits down behind, or, or in front of Tony? He’s facing Tony, which makes no sense, because– oh. Tony’s sitting in the saddle the wrong way around, back turned toward the front of the horse.</p><p>Rogers pulls him in, and something rustles. He has produced a scratchy blanket from somewhere and is now wrapping it around him, tucked tight around Tony’s body up to his nose. Then, they ride. Rogers does.</p><p>Tony just sits there, dazed, face buried into the man’s coat to escape the snowflakes grazing his skin like thousands of needles. He knows he should stay awake – although he can’t remember why, when sleep is so much more pleasant – but everything is a dull, slow haze, and the comfort of safety makes him think it’ll be alright to doze off. He can, now. Rogers is here now and he’ll be here later, when Tony wakes up.</p><p>Tony thinks he hears something muttered underneath the mans breath that sounds a whole lot like, “You’re a menace, Carbonell,” but he is already slipping away. </p><p>Sleep takes him soon after, and it comes with a feeling of alleviation.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tony wakes with a headache pounding behind his temples that makes him wish he could drift off to sleep again. </p><p>Everything is slow and muted. His throat is dry to the point it's painful, but there is no saliva in his mouth he could swallow. Tony smacks his lips and groans, a sharp, rough sound that startles even himself. He sounds like a dying animal; maybe because he is one. </p><p>"Thank God," someone says, close by. Very close by, in fact– Tony feels a gust of warm air brush past his cheek, and whoever said it is right there, and that line of warmth pressed along his back isn't a blanket like he's assumed. It would've been a strange blanket, anyway, huddled against his skin hot like a furnance. </p><p>Tony feels his face scrunch up in a strained grimace as he tries to pry his eyes open. They refuse to cooperate, at first, and the first glimpses he gets through small slits in his eyelids are nothing but blurry smudges of color. It's frustrating and he grinds out a sound of displeasure through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the soft material underneath. </p><p>"Take it easy," the same someone tells him, and Tony feels like he should be able to put a name to the voice by now. Afterwards, there is a hand underneath his head, tilting his face upward. Something is pressed to his mouth and Tony parts his lips, more out of reflex than in a deliberate action. Warm liquid spills into his mouth and Tony swallows it greedily, relishing the feeling of it soothing his raw throat. He almost whines in protest when it's taken away again, but only almost. There may not be much pride left within him, but he won't stoop down that low if he can help it. </p><p>His hand, still clawing the blanket, is taken away and being rubbed by fingers much warmer than his own. Despite the warmth all around, parts of him feel cold and rigid. His toes are the worst, maybe – Tony flexes them experimentally, and the simple movement leaves them sore and wakes him to a new pain: the one in his ankle, throbbing and reminding of what happened that caused him to end up in this position in the first place. </p><p>Tony makes another attempt at opening his eyes, and is met with success this time around. His vision is still somewhat blurred, the outlines of objects in it foggy and blending into one another, but he can identify his surroundings now. The soft glow emanating from the fire crackling in front of him drenches the room in orange shadows. Tony knows that sight and has drifted off to sleep in the cabin many times prior to the sound of it. Only now, he finds himself closer to the fire on the floor, above multiple layers of blankets. </p><p>"How're ya feelin'?" </p><p>Rogers' words bring him back to the here and now, his voice a rumble sending a shiver down Tony's spine as he feels the vibration of the man's chest against his naked back.</p><p>Of course, it's him. There is no one in these mountains other than Rogers who would've set out to search for him in the deepest of storms, picked up his weakened body from the snow and carried him back into the warmth of this hut that is theirs for only this one season. Rogers, who is now nestled against him, stripped to his underwear to preserve body heat in a mockery of Tony's hidden, most intimate fantasies. </p><p>Tony swallows. It's impossible to ignore just how close they are; he is acutely aware of every sensation and every single point of contact. Legs entangled, Tony's backside against the man's groin, chest hair tickling his skin, breath grazing his neck. Their bodies are slotted together perfectly, and Tony allows himself to savor that moment and the belief that this is how they're meant to be. </p><p>Then, Rogers makes an inquisitive sound and nudges him. Oh, right – he's supposed to open his mouth and answer. </p><p>"Been–" The word sounds like an ugly, raw abomination of human language, and Tony has to clear his throat twice before he speaks again. "Been better, but I'll survive."</p><p>He makes the mistake of turning his head and looking at the man, and scolds himself for it a moment later because he should habve known better than to think looking in those eyes wouldn't utterly wreck him. They're darker, hardly blue at all and pupils dilated in the dim light. For once, he's not wearing the hat, hair framing his features with an almost otherworldly shimmer. </p><p>Rogers' expression is one of concern – Tony has figured it out now, that his frowns often aren't truly angry but rather a misdirected attempt to show care he doesn't know how to express otherwise. (Tony might be a menace, but Steve Rogers is an enigma.) </p><p>"Don't do that again. I ain't goin' on any search and rescue missions anymore." </p><p>He hides it well, but Tony picks up on the distant waver in his voice all the same. The man swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and then his hand comes up and his thumb wipes over a spot on Tony's cheek that stings when touched. </p><p>"Got a cut there. We should clean that," he says, but his gaze isn't focused on the matter at hand anymore. His eyes have wandered down, and that's Tony's mouth he's looking at now. Tony holds his breath in anticipation, but nothing happens. </p><p>Disappointment spreads in him, heavy as lead. Is that it? After all this, after they have danced around each other with this <em> something </em>hovering above them, this is how it ends? </p><p>Tony thought he would <em> die. </em>He'd never admit it out loud, not to Rogers or anyone, but those moments in the storm left him with an existential fear shaking him to the core in a way he doesn't think he could explain even if he wanted to. And at the same time, it gifted him with the awareness that he cannot afford to wait, not now or ever. </p><p>There is no time. People think they will always have it, until they suddenly don't. It's a cycle, and everyone falls prey to it. Tony thought he had time, to assess every aspect of this strange bond he's forged with this man, to sneak clandestine glances, to turn over every piece of information he has and doesn't have in his head before he takes action – and it almost cost him everything.</p><p>Tony is tired of waiting for an epiphany to strike. </p><p>Rogers' eyes widen a fraction when he notices him leaning in, but Tony forgets about it as soon as their lips meet. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a short comment and letting me know!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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